


Would You Kindly...

by PerilousCowboy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 12,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousCowboy/pseuds/PerilousCowboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles written for prompts I receive on Tumblr. Always accepting new prompts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drabble 001

**Author's Note:**

> These are a collection of non-related drabbles written for prompts I receive on Tumblr. Feel free to send me any you'd like to see and I'll try to get to them as quickly as possible! My blog on tumbler is perilouscowboy.

**Prompt:** _Could you write a Drabble where Illya and Gabby have to talk or show their true feelings about each other? Please  
\- ONCE-UPON-A-HORSE-AND-A-TIMELORD_

_\---_

She was upset with him. Again. He’d lost his temper after Vasilescu had put a hand on her and he’d firmly broken it. Had almost assuredly, in turn, broken their cover because of it. This would be a dead end. Because of him.

Solo was trying to pick up the pieces of their shattered operation by exploring another in they’d had. Which left Illya and Gaby alone in the hotel room. She was pacing.

She was angry.

“You can’t keep doing that,” she chastised, pulling a vodka bottle from the shelf, but she didn’t set to pouring a drink yet. Only kept it in her hand.

“He should not have touched you,” he drawled.

Gaby turned, holding her hand out to the side. It had been a slap and it hadn’t even left a mark. “You knew that was a possibility going in. I was ready, I can take it, you know. There are things that need to be done when we’re on assignments and-…”

“You are not ready for this.”

“I’m not?” she asked, tipping her head slightly at him. “Or you’re not?” Illya kept quiet, a thin line to his lips, that blue stare averting to the side. How did she know how to cut so deep? With a sigh, Gaby set the bottle back down on the shelf. She walked over and stood in front of him, her chin tipped back so she could look up at his face.

“I did not like that he put his hand on you,” Illya told her, his voice low. “He is lucky I did not cut it off.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need you to protect me.” She stood her ground, reaching to take his wrists. Bloodied knuckles. Because of her. “If it were Solo, in that situation – wouldn’t you have trusted him to take care of himself?”

The answer was simple in words alone. “You are not Solo.”

A moment passed between them, a slow breath leaving her. “Well, I don’t want you to protect me,” she told him, the words ice stabbing at the silence on his face. There was question, rejection passing behind his eyes and she pulled at his wrists. “I want you…to kiss me. And then let me do my job.”

For a moment, she didn’t know if she’d gotten through to him. But the corner of his lip curled upwards, ever so slightly. “I am not so good at the first.”

“No doubt,” she told him. “But you’ll learn.”


	2. Drabble 002

**Prompt:**   _Can you write a drabble where illya tries to commit suicide, but napoleon and gaby find him ??  
\- Anonymous_

_\---_

By the time they reached him, Illya was shaking in his bindings, frothing at the mouth with his eyes rolled back in his head. There were two dead guards in the hallway behind them and a scientist on the floor with a bullet wound between the eyes. Gaby’s doing. She was becoming a good shot.

“What’s wrong with him?” Gaby questioned, already working on the bindings around his wrists. They’d had to use three of them in succession up his arms to keep him in place, his wrists red and raw. 

“My guess,” Solo said, already rummaging through the pockets of his vest, pull out a small vial, needle in tow, his fingers nimble as ever with no trace of worry except for the urgency of his actions. “Cyanide pill. Common among the KGB. They  _are_ fond of their secrets.” 

“What?” Gaby asked, horrified and she forwent the rest of the bindings on Illya’s arms to round him, pulling his head back to cradle it in her hands. “Why- why would he-…?” 

Solo worked quickly, inserting the needle into Illya’s arm, his eyes going to the man’s face, the choking noises coming from his throat making Solo’s heart race. “To avoid the effects of that truth serum they just injected him with, I would imagine.” Almost as soon as the contents of the vial were injected into Illya’s arm, the spasms making his whole body shake started to to calm, gasping noises replacing the chokes. “That’s it, Peril.”

Gaby ran her fingers through his hair. “And what did you give him?”

Stepping back a little, Solo let out a slow breath of his own. A few seconds later, it would have been too late. A few few seconds later…he shook his head, focusing on Gaby’s question. “Hydroxocobalamin,” he rattled off. “The antidote, essentially.”

Seeming to accept it, she kept up the motion of her fingers through his hair. “You know they weren’t going to ask him about KGB secrets,” she whispered.

Solo paused, giving a small half smile before coming forward and helping with the rest of his bindings. The Red Peril was going to have quite the recovery ahead of him. “No. They were not.” Solo knew exactly what they were going to ask him about. If only the scientist had waited a little longer.

He would have been happy to introduce himself.


	3. Drabble 003

**Prompt:**   _I am in desperate need of a cute and fluffy Illya/Gabby Drabble  
\- Anonymous_

\---

“It’s our song,” Gaby tells him. 

Illya freezes. It’s an undercover mission and they are not supposed to know each other. But she’d sidled up to him, her fingers moving through the records in front of them nimbly. There’s a husk to her voice that drives Illya mad.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hisses to her under his breath, eyes on their mark, who doesn’t seem to be paying them any attention. 

“The song,” Gaby says, swaying a little to the tunes as she lifts her hand and it’s then that Illya focuses on the music playing from the radio. Something like nostalgia hits him.  _Doncha feel like crying. C’mon baby, cry to me. Nothing could be sadder than a glass of wine alone…_ It takes him back to a hotel room in Rome. To a request to dance from a drunk Gaby in her pajamas. 

Illya smirks a little and knows exactly what he’s doing. “I have never heard this song in my life.”

“Oh?” Gaby asks and then has the indecency to turn and look at him, full on, in the middle of a mission. He does the same, brow raised, mostly to tell her to be careful, partially to follow through with the challenge. She turns away, a discarding air to her voice. “Perhaps it was a different fiance, then. I’ve had so many.” 

_But you don’t ever, don’t ever have to walk alone. You see, so c’mon take my hand._

They’re hidden behind a row of records and the mark’s back is still turned to them and somewhere Solo has that look on his face, Illya is sure of it. But it doesn’t stop him from reaching slightly, his fingers finding hers.

Holding her hand.

“I remember,” he tells her plainly, the sass and sarcasm gone from his voice. Sincere. 

Gaby smiles and pulls her fingers away slowly, but only because the mark is turning around. “Good,” she says under her breath to him.


	4. Drabble 004

**Prompt:**   _Illya getting paralyzed while on a mission and Napoleon having to drag his ass home/to safety (height difference ftw)  
\- Anonymous_

\---

“You know, Peril,” Solo spoke quietly, grunting a little at the weight over his shoulders. He mostly kept his eyes forward, but every now and again, glanced around to ensure they were no longer being pursued. They were at a mild disadvantage for the moment. The Red Peril was currently immobile, spread across Napoleon’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. 

He hadn’t carried anyone likes this since the war. Leave it to Illya.

“You’re lucky,” Solo continued. “The first time I was drugged, I took a rather nasty tumble and hit my head.” 

A slight grunt from the man on his shoulders. “This explains everything,” the lilt to his Russian accent was thicker than normal. It happened on occasion. Kuryakin had a good grasp of the English language, but it became muddied whenever he was injured or scared. The man wasn’t the first, thankfully, though he was currently incapacitated. Solo thought that he’d only ever seen true fear in the Russian whenever Solo or Gaby were in immediate danger. Never for himself. The big lug.

“What I’m trying to say, is don’t be too hard on yourself,” Solo gave earnestly. “It happens to the best of us. Which certainly explains why it could happen to you.” He ribbed the man a little and he heard him grunt again in response. The drugs were kicking in a little more, or he would have protested against the words. Solo hefted the man further up on his shoulders. He’d liked to be out of here before he was completely unconscious. If it had been Solo who’d taken that dart, he’d already be out. It always took more with Illya. Strong Russian constitution and whatnot. 

He rounded the corner and had to pause in his steps, a shadow against the bricks just behind a car. Of course. Just his luck. He sighed, rather dramatically and bent, letting Illya slide from his shoulders and lean against the wall. The Russian’s eyes were fluttering, but the movement seemed to rouse him a little, looking up at Solo.

“Wait here a moment,” Solo told him and was satisfied at the disgruntled look Illya shot his way. 

It didn’t take long to dispatch the threat ahead of them, but by the time he returned to Illya, the man had tipped to the side, his head resting against the sidewalk and his eyes closed. Solo rested a hand on the side of his neck. Still breathing, heart rate a little erratic but strong. He bent again, pulling the man’s arm to get him into that same fireman’s carry. “This sort of thing would never happen if I would only be allowed to work alone,” Solo grumbled, but the words were half-hearted. Said out of something like frustration.

He got the man on his shoulders, settled him there and started again for safety. He didn’t expect the answer from the Russian, slurred but recognizable. “You enjoy this, cowboy.”

Solo could only roll his eyes.


	5. Drabble 005

**Prompt** : _gaby, illya, and napoleon get into a drinking competition.  
\- Anonymous_

\---

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Peril.” Solo kept his smirk light, letting the other man know that it wasn’t an insult, it was something endeared to him. To all of them. It wasn’t often they got the Russian to kick back with a few stiff drinks. 

Illya had a rather unfortunate tell when he drank. His cheeks would flush. It didn’t take much. He was in no way a light weight, that much was obvious after they’d been drinking for a good half an hour and so far, only Gaby was sprawled out on the couch looking as though she could fall asleep at any moment. Solo had a strong tolerance and Illya, aside from the flushed cheeks, looked like he could use another bottle.

“You know this was not a good idea,” Illya told him, but for once, there was a lazy smile on his lips instead of that solid look he always seemed to give Solo. He’d been getting them more often. The Russian was getting more comfortable. One might even say – attached. 

Solo gave a laugh, tipping back his glass and he looked to Gaby, whose glass was slowly starting to slip from her fingers. He was waiting until it fell, to see if he could catch it, but Illya reached across her, pulling it from her fingers and setting it on the table. “On the contrary. This has proven to be a perfect idea.”

“Why is this?” Illya asked, leaning back, the picture of relaxation and wasn’t that a sight to see. It didn’t happen. Ever. The man even slept like he was ready to fight someone. 

“Illya,” he said, using the man’s name and maybe it was a sign of his sincerity. “In the little time that I’ve known you, you chased down a moving vehicle, tore the end off of it and hurled it like a discus, threw a man through the wall of a bathroom stall, which we’ll pretend never happened and you lifted your crashed motorbike off of yourself to use it as a weapon in Rome.” He leaned forward a bit. “You’re made of the sickle and hammer, iron in your bones. It’s good to see that you’re actually quite…human.” 

Illya, eyes narrowed slightly, seemed to be searching for an insult there. It hadn’t been one. The same curiosity in Solo as he felt when Illya got protective of Gaby, when he’d come for him during the ordeal with Uncle Rudi and the same he’d felt when Illya had shown that raw emotion while he stood at his back with a gun in his jacket, Solo felt now. A human, beneath that Iron Curtain skin.

“I still think you are a terrible spy.” It was the smile that gave him away. One mirrored on Solo’s face.


	6. Drabble 006

**Prompt:** _Can you please write a Illya/Napoleon Drabble where Illya gets jealous and protective of Napoleon ?  
\- Niallsperfectiononedirection_

\---

Solo’s drinking bourbon with another CIA agent they’d come across in Manhattan. The two of them have been going at it for hours, chatting away about pride and country, about the assassination of their president and the future of their organization and Illya hates everything about it. They’re two peas in a pod, both in their fancy suits with that salesman way of speaking, like the world is theirs for the buying – or taking.

Illya’s patient and stubborn enough to sit with his back turned to them. He wonders briefly when Gaby will get back. The thought is immediately ceased because he doesn’t want this new American to get any ideas. Not that she was his or that she couldn’t handle herself, but she had poor taste in men. She’d liked a Nazi for god’s sake.

“Illya,” Solo calls to him and he turns to look at the two of them. “Wouldn’t you rather quit sulking and come join us for a drink?” 

His eyes drift over to the new American before returning to Solo. “No, thank you,” he says politely, but it’s obvious the reason why. Solo watches him for another moment and Illya can’t quite read the look on his face.

The new American can. “Maybe if it were vodka,” he says and while Solo smiles, Illya can recognize when it’s fake by now. The words are said with such disdain, but Illya wouldn’t expect anything less from CIA. They were at war, after all. He leans in towards Solo. “You really should consider retiring from this…UNCLE business. Get your feet sturdy on American soil again.”

Solo, for his part, keeps that smile on his face. “We’re still in Manhattan, Tom. How much more American can it get?”

“In Manhattan, but still clearly in bed with the enemy,” the agent says, turning to give Illya a look again. “Even if it’s under the guise of global taskforces.” 

Illya stands, a slow movement, and heads over to where they’re seated. He takes the man’s glass off of the table in front of them, holding it as if it were his own. “I do not like your new friend,” he says, the words directed at Solo.

“Yes, well,” the CIA agent stands and reaches for his glass. Illya doesn’t let it go, the both finding themselves at an impasse. “I’m not fond of his new friends either.” 

Solo sighs, setting his own glass down and gains his feet, straightening his shirt before putting a hand on the American’s shoulder. “Come, Tom,” he says. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

The man hesitates for a moment but lets go of his glass, following Solo’s lead. “You know there’s a fine line between cooperation and treason, Solo,” he says under his breath. Illya can still hear and he snorts, throwing back the drink as he watches their backs.

“Yes,” Solo agrees, but the next words make Illya smirk. “But not nearly as fine a line as the one you’re treading right now.”


	7. Drabble 007

**Prompt:**   _Hi! Can you please write a drabble where Gaby has to practice ballet again and Illya watches her. And well, you know Russians love their ballet.....  
\- Spiffymango_

\---

Gaby dances in their hotel room while Illya plays chess. It’s not a habit. There’s no alcohol involved this time. She’s practicing for an undercover and has been reacquainting herself with the art form for the last couple of weeks. It means she hasn’t stopped dancing.

But Illya’s stopped complaining.

She performs moves behind him and while to an outsider it would seem his attention is solely on the pawns, bishops, and all the pieces of the game in front of him, he’s aware of every noise she makes. The sound of her feet light on the floor, of the sharp breaths she takes before she leaps, of the sounds of victory when she lands a routine that’s more difficult than Illya knows.

It’s not until she comes over, spinning, in front of him, that he lifts his eyes. She moves with delicate precision, turning her ballet into a samba behind the couch. It takes her only a few steps to round it and he knows this game. His eyes go back to the board and he makes his move. The Rook. His favorite.

It draws her attention when she doesn’t have his. Gaby keeps dancing, starting to hum to the music as she comes over, swaying side to side, throwing in something fancy here and there to get him to look. He doesn’t. It takes a lot of effort.

Finally, she reaches him and takes his wrists, just as she had done in the hotel room that first time. He finally looks up at her and does his best to look annoyed. “I do not dance,” he tells her, his voice a deep timbre compared to the classical trill of the song playing on the radio.

“I know,” Gaby says, but it doesn’t stop her from dancing one side with her hands pulling his, side to side, out from him and he’s become more of a prop than anything. 

On one occasion, she lets go of one wrist and holds his arm up. He doesn’t even have to stand to reach his arm above her head. She does a twirl and he sees his opportunity. Just like chess. You take your openings.

Pulling her in the middle of her twirl, she gives a sharp gasp as she falls towards him. He’s tugged her just right that she lands in his lap and his arm settles on her knees, trapping her there. Her breath catches, because it brings them closer together than she’d anticipated.

“You must work on your balance, little ballerina,” he tells her, eyes on her face. She’s trembling again. She does so when she’s scared. 

And sometimes when she’s not.

“Who says I didn’t mean to end up here?” she breathes back, her eyes falling to his lips. 

He smiles and then guides her to her feet. “Keep practicing,” he tells her and he can see the disgruntled look pass over her face. He’s not kissed her yet. It’s not for lack of want on either of their behalf.

It’s dancing.

“I am enjoying the view.”


	8. Drabble 008

Prompt:  _I followed you to tumblr (which I barely know how to use) and saw you were offering ficlets and had to smother a squeal of delight. Could you please hurt Illya for me? Have him push past all the pain and the signals to slow down and take care, and then have his battered body betray his iron will. And then, at the end, bring in Gaby and Napolean, because whatever they do, the fact that they're there will be enough. Please and thank you and you are delightful!  
\- Ysande-jin_

\---

One moment, Illya’s leaned against the wall, taking shots at the guards who are after him. The next, he’s taking a step towards the docks and his escape route, but winds up in the dirt instead. He’s not sure what happened, but he thinks his knees have betrayed him. The world tilts and if it would just hold still for a moment, he’s got an escape to make. It’s only his will to survive that has him pulling himself around the corner and out of the line of fire. Just a short trek down the docks, he can see the boat. It seems a million miles away as he spits blood into the dirt.

There’s a bullet in his chest he should have never taken.

Pain and ache lace their way into his veins, settle deep into his muscles along with the bruises. He’d been in this facility for a week. An entire week and today was supposed to be his execution. Only you didn’t kill a man by putting a bullet in his chest. You put it in his head and that had been their mistake. It was easy to act dead when they expected you to be.

The escape had seemed so clear to him. Take out the guards, run the quarter mile to the docks, take the boat to safety and only after that would he acknowledge there was a bullet lodged somewhere in him. He’d only made it through part of the plan.

His lips started to tingle, his face going numb and he leaned his head back against the bricks. There was still gunfire sounding behind him and he wondered what they were shooting at. Lousy shots, the lot of them.

“ _No, no, no._ ” The voice seemed a lifetime away. Was that Gaby? He didn’t know his eyes had closed until he felt a small hand on his face, moving to press against his neck and it stayed there. “Illya.” 

His name on her lips had his eyes opening. She was dressed in black, dark eyes on his. It took him a moment to realize the gunshots had stopped and Solo appeared behind her. “Peril,” he greeted, but his eyes betrayed the concern. “You’re a hard man to find.”

A smile spread across Illya’s face, even with his lips covered in blood. “I find all your trackers.”

“Yes,” Solo agreed. “And we should have words about that, once we’re out of immediate danger.” 

“Come on,” Gaby says and she tugs one of his arms around her shoulders. Illya doesn’t have the strength to ask her what she thinks she’s going to be able to accomplish. “Help me,” she snaps at Solo, but the man had already been moving.

“Hold on, Peril,” Solo breathes and Gaby’s grip on him tightens. 

He wants to tell them that it’s only one bullet and it takes more than that to bring down a Russian, but he can only curl his fingers around their shirts and hold on. He trusts them to handle it, like he trusts no one else in the world. There are no other arms he’d rather be in.


	9. Drabble 009

_**Prompt** : Illya, Gaby, and Napoleon are stuck with a terrified toddler who was kept by the villain until Waverly or someone else can come and get him/her in the morning. The kid starts crying and freaking out and Illya just steps in and is like "I've got this"  
\- Platonicassobservation_

\---

“We should do something,” Gaby said, her hands on her hips as she watched the UNCLE agents struggle with their biggest handful yet. A child, dirty face and unkempt hair, extracted from a THRUSH facility. Why they were keeping her was unknown. Who she was and what would happen to her now, also unknown. “She’s terrified.” 

Solo kept one hand in his pocket, as he looked on at the spectacle. “Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid,” he told her. “I try to stay away from small children.”

A smirk on Gaby’s face. “You’re afraid?”

“Terribly so,” Solo gave her a sidelong glance, a joke but with a hint of honesty in the words. 

The clucking of Illya’s tongue reminded them both that he was there. He stepped in between them. “I will handle this,” he grumbled and started towards the child and the exasperated agents. Gaby and Solo stood with brows raised, curious looks on their faces.

“This is not a good idea,” Gaby whispered. 

“Should be entertaining, at least,” Solo mirrored her sentiment. 

Illya came to stop in front of the agents. He bent, leaning down to take the girl beneath her arms and lifted her up. It wasn’t anything personal or comforting, he held her out in front of him, dangling there for a moment as they regarded each other. Small blue orbs stared at colder icy ones and Illya’s face remained impassive the entire time, calculating. He turned, holding her out away from him, like were carrying something dirty or infectious instead of a small child. He set her down on a crate, making sure she stood on her own before pulling his hands back.

As soon as she did, she started to cry and he held up a hand, “Uh, uh,” he scolded, firmly, waggling his finger back and forth. Surprisingly, she stopped. Gaby scoffed and Solo just tipped his head to the side.

Reaching inside his jacket, Illya pulled out a small rag. He waved it in front of her and then balled one hand into a fist, making a show of stuffing the rag into his balled up fist with his thumb. Once it has disappeared from sight, he held out his hand for her. The little girl looked down at it, but then wrapped a tiny hand around one of his fingers, trying to pull it away. He opened his hand, revealing just an empty palm.

With his other hand, he made a reach behind her ear and when he pulled it back, the rag was dangling between his fingers. She stared at it and he tucked it into her own hand, waiting until she had a hold on it. He gave her a smile, patted her on the head, accompanying it with a, “Very good, tiny child,” and then started back towards Solo and Gaby, looking a little impressed with how he’d quieted the girl.

Only then, the child had leaped off the crates and hurried over to stand next to Illya, who’d stopped to look down at her. She silently reached up to take hold of his hand. Illya was comically frozen at the gesture.

A snort escaped Solo. “Peril, you make the most interesting friends.”


	10. Drabble 010

_**Prompt:** Blehhh so if you are still taking drabble prompts... I would die happy for a drabble about Gaby seeing Illya do that leg flip (a la the bathroom fight w/ Solo) on some random henchmen, and pestering him to teach her to fight like that.  
\- Russiantrees_

\---

“Don’t you want to come and learn this with me, Solo?” It was an innocent enough question from Gaby, but the man merely shook his head from where he stood in the doorway, watching the two of them practice the techniques Illya was teaching her. 

“I’m afraid I’ve already been on the receiving end of super agent’s takedown techniques and it’s an experience I’d rather not repeat,” Solo insisted. Of course, they hadn’t known they’d be working together then and he truly believed that if Oleg hadn’t stepped in, the Russian would have killed him. Or captured him. He didn’t even have it in him to pretend that he was anywhere near Illya’s expertise when it came to hand to hand combat. It was good, then, that he was teaching some of it to Gaby. 

Illya smirked at the comment, holding his chin up, taking pride, as he looked down at her. “I win this fight,” he told her, referring to their bathroom brawl.

Solo snorted. “Masterfully so.”

“Then teach me,” Gaby said, looking up at Illya expectantly. 

Solo couldn’t help it. Devilish smirk crossing his features. He’d seen the way they looked at each other and even if they had yet to act upon these feelings, as far as Solo knew, it didn’t stop him from observing every little moment they didn’t know they were allowing him to see. And he approved, oddly enough.

“Don’t you think, Peril, that Gaby would be better suited to learn…” he trailed off, waving his hand a little. “The kiss?” 

Gaby, for her part, made a face, eyes rolling slightly before she turned a dangerous glare to Solo. “What?” she demanded.

Illya took the bait easily enough, though Solo was 100% sure it didn’t occur to him what he was saying. “No,” he shook his head. “It takes years to perfect, I tell you this already.”

“Is that so?” Gaby demanded. 

This time, Gaby’s deadly gaze turned back to Illya, who met her gaze before his mouth opened slightly as he realized what she thought. “He’s means a very different-…” He didn’t have time to explain as Gaby rolled up her sleeves and lowered herself, a move that Solo hadn’t been around the first time to see. But she expertly tackled Illya in the midsection, sending them both sprawling to the ground.

A smirk curled up the corner of his lips. “I suppose I’ll leave you two at it, then,” he said, turning to head off in search of Waverly.


	11. Drabble 011

_**Prompt:** Self-harming Illya, maybe?_   
_\- Anonymous_

\---

Solo and Gaby were somewhere on the other side of the door.

There were tight shackles around his wrists, held firmly in place by a steel bar on the ground. It was an awkward position, one that kept him crouched and he thought they’d done it on purpose. If he had time, he could work that steel bar out of it’s embedded state in the concrete. But he didn’t have time.

The sharp crack of someone getting hit on the other side of the door and Gaby’s concerned yell had a low growl escaping his throat as he rolls his eyes, feeling at a loss being in this position. Being restrained was more humiliating and infuriating than any position he found himself in. And the fact that he couldn’t see them, couldn’t be there to help them…

His finger started to twitch when he heard Gaby cry out. She was trying to be tough, but she wasn’t trained. Not like Solo. Not like him. Drums sounded in his ears, the steady beating of psychosis creeping it’s way into his mind. He had to help them. He had to break something.

A mumbled retort from Solo, muffled by the door and another sound of someone getting hit. Gaby yelling, “Stop!” and that’s all it takes.

He stands, then. But the shackles leave his hands near the floor, so he’s bent at the waist. They’re too strong for even him to break, industrial chains. When the metal’s too strong, there’s something else that’s more breakable. Something that can be shattered to free him.

Bone.

He lifts his foot and brings it down hard on his left hand. The movement is awkward, clunky at the odd angle he’s forced to stay crouched at, but the pain helps ground him, or fuel him. He can’t tell anymore. He does it again and again, remaining silent through it all. It’ll heal. And if it doesn’t, it’s not his gun hand. He’ll still be an asset.

The anger builds, bubbles in his chest, broiling beneath the surface. It blinds out any pain, the searing, scorching feeling and all he can hear, other than the rage deafening his senses, is Gaby. Being brave. Is Solo. Being sarcastic. It won’t save them.

He will.

He finally gets his hand where it’s shattered enough to pull free of the shackle around his wrist. He stands and his misty red hazed gaze falls to the door. It was a worthwhile sacrifice, the injury.

He didn’t need two hands to take down the person hurting his friends.


	12. Drabble 012

_**Prompt** : I have a prompt for you, for when you have time! (If you're still taking them) Simple: Illya gets poisoned. I'll leave the details to you, but angst is very very very welcome :)  
\- Claracivry_

\---

It starts with a cold sweat.

Solo’s babbling on about some self-indulgent topic, wine or food, Illya’s already drowned him out by the time he realizes he doesn’t feel right. Beads of perspiration break out on his forehead, a slight pull to his balance, his equilibrium thrown askew, a few knots off kilt. His eyes drift from Solo to the tea he’d just sipped. A fresh kettle, wasn’t it?

“You feeling alright, Peril?” Solo’s question is a familiar one, but this time he doesn’t respond. It doesn’t even occur to him to be suspicious. He knows Napoleon Solo. The man had burned nuclear warhead plans. For him. 

Reaching for the cup, he pulled it up, looking at the contents inside. It looked like ordinary tea. He gave the cup a sniff. No scent. But the effects were worsening. A sharp pain in his gut had him looking up at Solo. “Poisoned,” he says simply.

Solo’s face goes from one of worried curiosity to a little bit wider eyed, mouth downturned. “Did you…-”

“Yes,” Illya says and sets the cup down. It spills because his hands are shaking. 

No more time is wasted. Solo’s hurrying towards the bathroom. Illya tries to follow, but a hand on the wall is the only thing that’s helping ground the spinning of the room around him. His head tipping to the side as he tries to find balance that isn’t there.

“In the cabinet,” he calls out to Solo, hearing him rifling around in the bathroom. 

“I know!” Solo calls back and a moment later, he’s emerging, a bottle in his hand. Ipecac. Not even approved by the FDA for sale. Illya didn’t like the look of it, but knew it was necessary. “Here you are,” Solo held it out for him. “Drink this.” Illya’s hand is shaking too hard to hold onto it, so Solo tips his chin back and puts the bottle to his lips himself.

Illya chokes on the god awful taste afterwards, but Solo’s already pulling him towards the bathroom. He gets him just over the tub before he loses the contents of his stomach into the basin. Solo is doing equal parts holding him up at the same time patting his back. “There we go,” he says and Illya would almost prefer it if the man made some joke. Some quip about the expensive carpet in their hotel room.

The main door opens and they both stiffen, but Gaby’s voice comes. “Waverly thinks we should-…”

“Gaby!” Solo yells. 

Illya shakes his head. “No,” he says and it comes out more of a beg than the demand he means it to be.

“There’s no shame in it,” Solo tells him and promptly ignores the request. “Gaby, would you be so kind as to bring the car around?” 

She appears in the doorway a moment later, eyes wide as she sees him. “Illya?” she starts to come forward.

A shake of his head. “I am fine.” It’s followed by choking gag into the bathtub.

“Peril here needs a doctor,” Solo explains. “Someone’s gone and poisoned his tea. I would very much like to get him to a professional. So, the car, if you would.” Gaby hesitates for only a moment, before she’s disappearing to do as he asks. Solo, meanwhile, leans down to pull one of Illya’s arms around his shoulders.

“Cowboy…” Illya grumbles. 

“Stop that, now,” Solo tells him as he starts leading him towards the door. “There’ll be plenty of time for a heartfelt conversation once you’re well.” 

“No,” Illya gives a shake of his head, Solo looks as though he’s ready to protest again. Illya stops him, because heartfelt was never something he was good at. “I ruin your shoes.” 

A quick glance down and Solo’s lifting his head with a sigh. “Team up with Russia, they said.”


	13. Drabble 013

_**Prompt** : Tell us some fun facts about Napoleon's past, his specialties etc.(:  
\- Anonymous_

\---

“A jilted lover, actually,” Solo said, sipping at his scotch as he sat back in the chair, looking across the room to Gaby, who was trying to crack the safe Solo had put out for her. Teaching her what he knew about the skillset, she was picking up on the skill easily. Illya was having nothing to do with it, sitting in another room entirely leaned over a chessboard. They’d all come to respect the times when he needed quiet. They were getting fewer and further in between, which was good.

“That’s how you got caught?” Gaby asked, looking over at him. Solo merely pointed back to the safe, that ever present smirk on his face. 

He nodded, however before her eyes were off of him. “She wasn’t particularly fond of the way we ended things. It was my mistake, of course, for trusting her not to take our illustrious past times to the authorities.”

“No honor among thieves?” Gaby asked, the safe clicking once beneath her, but not opening. 

“That wounds me,” Solo answered, hand to his chest. 

One more click of the safe and Gaby lifted her gaze to him again. “Good,” she told him and there was that look that was so commonly on her face when they spoke of his past. She wasn’t a fan of thieves, he could tell. She’d not come out and admonished him for the title, but it was clear as day on her face some times. She was an opinionated woman. That’s what he liked about her.

“My father was a janitor,” he said and for once, the words lacked any sort of sarcasm or banter. Gaby stopped what she was doing to look across at him. That was something she didn’t know. Illya was still quiet in the other room, but he knew the man was listening as well. “An Irish one, living in America during a time when it was just getting over the idea that all Irishmen were gangsters or poor inbreds. I never tasted high society until I stole it.” He pointed to the safe again, to show her to get back to work. 

Gaby didn’t. She stood there and watched him. “So you capitalize off of other people’s misfortunes,” she said and while she meant for it just to be a question, Solo could see the disdain in her voice. Rightfully so. Her family could have easily been one that American soldiers came through and stole things from.

“Gaby,” Solo said, serious in his voice. “I’ve not fenced or stolen a thing since I was caught.” 

She gave a small laugh. “And the truffles in your risotto?” Solo had to smile. The mimicry of his old handler’s voice was spot on.

“That, is a completely different vice, I’m afraid.” 

From the other room, Illya, who’d remained silent the whole time, spoke up. “He gambles.”

A slow smile spread across Solo’s face. “Care for a game of backgammon?”


	14. Drabble 014

_**Prompt** : Ooh could you please write something about Gaby and Illya having to actually share a bed for a mission? Bonus points if it is from Gaby's POV.  
\- Anonymous_

\---

The bed dips and Gaby stays right where she is, curled on her side, facing the window. A hand beneath her head while the other is wrapped around her middle, holding the comforter in place. In the glass, she can see Illya’s outline. Massive and hesitant to lay down. She hears him sigh and can’t help but smirk.

“I will be on the couch,” he breathes, standing, a grumbled sentence and if he hadn’t been tip toeing around the idea of laying down on the bed with her, starting and stopping multiple times, Gaby would have thought that’s where he wanted to be. On the couch. Two sizes too small for him. 

“You won’t fit,” she chimes in. 

A scoff from Illya because she’s right. She can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out what to do about this situation. One bed. One hotel room. No where else to go.

He gives a tsk of his tongue. “I am not tired.”

Gaby sighs, but keeps her head turned away. He shouldn’t see her smiling. “It’s a bed, Illya,” she calls to him. “That’s all it is. Now lay down and go to sleep.”

Another tsk of his tongue. She knows what’s going through his head. The same reservation he shows in all affection. He’s good with sincere words to squelch fear, or gentle touches on shoulders to soothe hurts.

It’s when things are at their worse that he is at his best.

“Please,” she adds, giving him something to latch onto. Not quite a beg, but a coaxing nonetheless. 

A sigh this time and the bed is dipping again. It moves beneath him as he shifts into a prone position, above the blankets. She can watch him in the reflection of the window. He lays his hands folded over his stomach and the bed doesn’t move again after that. He’s as still as can be, as though frozen there.

Rolling her eyes slightly, she follows it by rolling over, tucking her opposite hand beneath her cheek and she stares at the side of his face. His eyes are still open, diverted towards the ceiling. It’s after a moment like this, of him deathly still like he’s afraid to shake the bed and her studying his features before either of them says anything.

“You are staring,” his voice is low, quiet. Rumbling even in a whisper. 

She nods her head. “And what of it?”

His head rolls to the side this time, to meet her gaze. He looks back at her with the same studious gaze she appraises him with. He remains quiet, like he doesn’t have an answer for that. She doesn’t think she has one either.

Except…

She moves gingerly, slowly so no to spook him, but he tips his head back regardless to watch her. The hand beneath her cheek is replaced instead with his shoulder. It’s more comfortable than one would imagine. Than she imagined.

“Good night, Illya,” she told him, her eyes closing. 

It was quiet, but she felt him relax, even if he didn’t change the prone position. That same rumbled whisper, deep from his chest. “Good night.”


	15. Drabble 015

_**Prompt** : Hi, Aga from Poland, watched TMFU last weekend – it was pure fun - and I think your fics are spot on. They made me smile, really love them so much that I decided to give you a prompt.llya & Gaby wedding day. Before ceremony llya worries about their future his best man Napoleon gives him pep talk.  
\- Anonymous_

\---

“The truffles arrived. The wine as well, though not the vintage I had hoped for,” Solo drone the words as he steps into the room, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets as he eyes Illya, standing in front of a mirror. The man’s chin is tipped back, fixing his tie, but he knows that look on the Russian’s face. “It’ll have to do, but I’ll exchange my pleasantries with the seller on a less important day.” He sits on the edge of the desk, folding his hands in his lap. “The only thing missing now…” he caught Illya’s eyes in the mirror and say the man take a deep breath. “Is the groom.” 

A muttering in Russian was the only response, to garbled for Solo to make sense of.

“Peril,” he used the nickname fondly, still after all these years. “Why are you hiding?” 

A scoff escaped Illya’s throat. “What are you talking about,” he said, fixing his tie for the third time since Solo had entered the room. Solo stood, coming to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror as he reached for the tie. “I can do it,” he argued.

“If you’ll allow me,” Solo prodded gently. Illya hesitated a moment before his hands fell to the side. As he started to work on the tie, he glanced at Illya’s face again. “So? Why?” 

Illya made a face, looking away for a moment before he turned back to Solo and he didn’t mistake the anger for what it truly was. Fear. Worry. Self doubt. All things that Illya Kuryakin didn’t have often, but when he did, they were scored painfully deep into his psyche. He opened his mouth, but then sighed before speaking again. “My father is sent to Gulag. Gaby’s father, a Nazi. I defect from Russia, she escape from East Germany…we flee the Iron Curtain and we make a new life in America.”

Solo nodded along. He knew them both well enough to know the entire story. Had spent years working with them at his side. “Yes, a rather interesting story to tell the grand children.”

“This is the problem!” Illya’s voice raised and Solo lifted a brow at him. He sighed again, letting out a slow breath, working on that anger he’d been trying to master for years. “What if…we do not belong. I am only reminder of where she comes from.” He shook his head. “If the shame of my father follows…-”

“Stop,” Solo said. He finally got Illya’s tie straight. “I assure you, Peril, that you  _do_ remind her of where she’s been.” He ignored the chagrined face Illya gave him. “But, and more importantly, you remind her of where she’s going.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket, stuffing it into Illya’s breast pocket and patting it lightly. “Which for the next two weeks, is sunny Hawaii.”

Illya was quiet for a long moment. “I do not know how to be American.”

That garnered a chuckle. “Illya,” Solo said calmly, sincerely. “None of us do. You’ll fit right in.” He reached to pat the man on the shoulder, then gripping it firmly, turning him towards the door. “Now, let’s get you to your blushing bride, shall we?”

Illya took a shaky breath, the face he made one of utter anxiety. “I am less nervous fighting Reich infiltrators.”

Solo gave another laugh as he opened the door. Illya’s new life stood ahead of them. “Your greatest challenge yet, my friend.”


	16. Drabble 016

_**Prompt** : After reading your last drabble (with the small child); I was inspired to prompt a young girl (like 9/10) running up to Napoleon and calling him her boyfriend and Napoleon (serial womanizer that he is), has to explain "no I swear I'm not evil never in a million years well okay BUT I WAS 15 AT THE TIME!"  
\- Westcoastmalone_

\---

“What… is this?” It’s a legitimate question, Solo presumes. Illya has his arms crossed over his chest as he asks the question. Gaby’s head is tipped to the side, with an amused look on her face.

Solo, the man questioned, stands with one hand in his pocket, the other stretched down at his side and attached to his stretched hand is a nine year old girl, smiling brightly up at the two of them. 

“This,” Solo says, taking a breath. “Is the Countessa’s youngest daughter.” He side glances to the young girl, who seems unfazed by it all. “Madeleine.” 

Gaby bends slightly at the waist. “Hello,” she greets her.

“Mr. Solo is my boyfriend,” Madeleine replies and Gaby lifts a brow, looking up at him. Solo sweats beneath the gaze. This was never an assignment he would have asked for, out of his element in every way possible, he was having trouble maintaining his normal suave self in this current position. He was good with people. When they reached a certain age. 

Clearing his throat, he smiled back at the British agent. “Gaby,” he said, as if an idea had just struck him. “Do you know what I think Miss Madeleine here would love? For someone to fix her hair. Multiple times. Possibly for an hour or two until the Countessa can come and collect her.”

It took only a moment before Gaby’s slightly ajar mouth closed and she shook her head. “No, no, no,” she drawled, walking away just as easily as she’d greeted the man when he’d first walked in. Solo stared at her retreating back. Traitor, he thought.

By the time his gaze pivoted to Illya, the man was already turning, heading towards the bathroom, probably to lock himself in there to work on his photographs. A red room, which he turned all of their bathrooms these days while he was on surveillance.

“Peril,” Solo called to him, hopeful. 

It didn’t last. “You work better alone, Cowboy. I remember this.”

“But you see, I’ve been thinking about that,” Solo continued to call after him. “Somewhere along the way this became a team effort.” The door to the bathroom closed behind the retreating Russian. “Surely you remember  _that_?” 

“I am busy,” Illya’s response garbled by the door. 

Solo sighed. Traitor, as well. He looked down at the girl at his side, who was smiling up at him. “A word of advice,” he told her. “If you ever hear someone insist that partners shouldn’t kill each other on their first day,” he spoke louder so both Gaby and Illya could hear him. “Vehemently disagree.”


	17. Drabble 017

_**Prompt** : Prompting mood: Gaby is working in the garages which spurs a lot of male attention, which means Ilya and Napoleon spending time in the garages as well, but as it turns out the extra males are just enamoured with her machine fixing abilities/agent status not the woman herself.  
\- Westcoastmalone_

\---

Three weeks into an undercover assignment in a garage has taught Napoleon Solo two things. The first, he’s finally found a suit he can’t pull off. A jumpsuit. Brown and dirty, no matter how he tries to accessorize or keep in the right order or area, it just isn’t flattering. It collects oil and grease worse than anything he’s ever worn before and it chafes in areas he wasn’t aware were even a part of his body.

The second thing he’d learned, and much to his amusement, was that no matter what Gaby wore, she could always pull it off. Jumpsuit or not, she attracted attention. He’d lost count of how many times people brought their car into the garage and protested having a woman working on it until Gaby showed up. And even then, they’d point to Illya, who seemed to fit right into the environment. Solo found it amusing as possible, because Illya, for all his technical prowess in surveillance, would rather duct tape a car back together than replace parts.

Gaby convinced them in the end. Explaining in detail what she’d do to get their vehicles running again and it was an interesting trade off. Catching their eyes with her looks, oil and dirt on her face or not, but holding their attention with her knowledge of the business.

Little Chop Shop Girl.

Illya hated it when Solo called her that.

Solo was taking a break, seated behind a desk and watching a man watch Gaby work. He was amused at first, until the man tipped his head to get a better look. And not at her work. A sigh escaped him and he was about to get up and go tell the man that if he wanted a show, he knew a perfectly good theater up the street.

Illya stepped in first. He was silent when he wanted to be. Even in his own jumpsuit, oil on his face and hands dirty because he did most of the heavy lifting, he came to stand right behind the man, arms crossed over his chest. So infatuated with Gaby, the man didn’t even notice until Illya cleared his throat.

“Oh!” the man exclaimed, turning to look at him. He gave a nervous laugh at having been caught. Clearing his throat, he smirked and said, “Gotta admit, the lady knows how to work an exhaust pipe, am I right?” He followed up the comment by reaching up to clap Illya on the shoulder. 

Solo shook his head, because he could see the tapping of Illya’s finger from here. A fight? But Illya merely glanced down at his shoulder, jaw set, and jerked his head towards the other part of the garage. The man took his cue, giving a nervous chuckle and nodding before he walked off.

Illya’s gaze move back to Gaby. Ever protective. Solo wasn’t blind to what was happening between the two of them. He thought it was…cute. Unaware he was being watched, Solo’s brow raised slightly when he saw Illya’s head tip curiously, like he was trying to see what the man was looking at.

In that moment, Gaby turned, easily spotting Illya and all she did was put her hands on her hips, shaking her head at him like she was disappointed. Illya’s eyes widened, his mouth parting, but Gaby was wandering off before he could explain.

“Well done, Peril,” Solo called. The man turned wide eyes to look at him, before growling out a string of grumbled Russian and returning to his own work, bending over an open car to try and tear out a part with his damn bare hands. Solo smirked. 

He could see Gaby in her own corner, turning her head to try and catch a view of her own.


	18. Drabble 018

_**Prompt** : As I said, I caught a mood; Gaby's insomnia flairs up, and for once instead of alcohol she decides to do something else; rigours exercise. The boys either can't find her and panic, or find her passed out somewhere the next morning and are unable to wake her  
\- Westcoastmalone_

\---

There was a rumble beneath his feet. The sound of glass shattering, of furniture tumbling and it was only because the radio was turned off while he read the newspaper that he heard the familiar grunts of a woman.

If he didn’t know her better, Solo would have thought Gaby had company.

But he did know her. And he also knew the Kuryakin was currently suffering through the flu, which meant that the only company she could possibly be entertaining with such voracity was tucked beneath a mount of blankets Gaby had insisted on supplying herself. In his own room.

It sent a spike of worry through Solo, because it was entirely possible that something was afoul in the room below his. It had him heading out into the hallway in his slippers and robe, gun tucked into his robe pocket as he hurried down the stairs, finding Gaby’s room with ease. It surprised him when Kuryakin rounded the corner as well, converging at Gaby’s door with him. The man looked a little worse for wear, flushed cheeks and sweat on his brow. His hair a mess. He wasn’t getting any better and that was something they’d deal with in the morning.

“Cowboy?” Illya rasped and Solo could see the outline of a gun in Illya’s own robe. Too short for him. 

“On three?” he asked, pointing to Gaby’s door, his voice kept a little low. Illya nodded and they stood facing each other, shoulders aimed at the door. Solo mouthed the countdown and as he reached three, they both threw their shoulders into the door, knocking it nearly off it’s hinges. 

A startled cry escape from inside and Solo’s gun was raised, but the only person inside the room was Gaby, who stood wide eyed in her pajamas, currently accosting a stack of pillows as though they were an enemy.

Solo took one glance around the room, saw it’s condition and let out a sigh.

“What are you doing?” Illya asked, a little slow on the uptake through the sickness that was very nearly consuming him. 

Gaby looked a little embarassed at first, but Solo didn’t say anything, instead heading to the small liquor cabinet that had been supplied in their room.

“What are  _you_  doing?” Gaby shot back at Illya. “You should be in bed.” 

Illya held his chin up, but the sniffle he gave afterwards shattered any illusion he had about himself. “I thought there was intruder,” he gave, putting his hand on his hip in an attempt to make himself look somewhat dignified.

“I would have handled it,” Gaby tried to sound annoyed, but Solo knew better by now. He’d poured two drinks, heading back over he held one out for Gaby and she glanced it hesitantly before coming over to take it from him. 

“A night cap,” he told her. “Should help you sleep.” 

“I’m not tired,” she protested, but held the glass close to her chest anyway. 

“Yes, well,” Solo groaned as he sat on her couch, pinching the bridge of his nose before sipping his own drink. “You practicing judo on your pillows at one in the morning isn’t helping  _my_  sleep either.” 

Gaby smirked. She took a sip of her drink, passing by Illya as he made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Solo. She curled on the couch next to Solo and smiled at the pair of them. “Did you two practice that door thing?”

“We do not need to practice,” Illya said, rubbing at his forehead. 

“Why do you ask?” Solo turned to look at her. 

She smirked again, but Solo could see the gratefulness in her eyes. “The two of you working together. It was cute.”


	19. Drabble 019

_**Prompt** : I'm sorry, one more. Ilya finds an abandoned kitten or puppy and decides to take it back to HQ thinking maybe Gaby would like it, but Waverly decides he wants it instead  
\- Westcoastmalone_

\---

It’s there on the first night of his surveillance run. A mutt of a puppy with tufts of fur missing in patches. He tries to shoo it away, swatting his hat at the thing to get it to leave him alone because it’s a distraction he doesn’t need while he’s trying to spy on the Duchess’s nephew for UNCLE. It doesn’t leave, just stays out of his way and skirts around the edges of Illya’s reach. It barks once at him and Illya just about shoots it, but he thinks better of the idea.

The second night it’s back again, this time being bold enough to tug at his jacket with small teeth. Illya swats at it again and curses at it in Russian and even when he picks it up and places it a block down the alley, sending it off with a small swat to the behind – it’s already waiting for him when he returns to his equipment. Little bugger had run straight around the corner, back to this spot. It’s infuriating him. It’s only a dog. He has to remind himself of this several times during the night as it stays with him.

The third night has Illya getting into staring contests with the brat. He barks at it once to see what it will do, but instead of running or getting mean, it plays around him, rolling in the dirt. Illya thinks he knows of a woman who does the same when someone yells at her. He tries to ignore it after that but the dog falls asleep with his head close to Illya’s knee and if he pets it it’s only because it’s an absent minded thing.

On the fourth night, he’s sharing a sandwich with the dog. It sits by his side the entire time and quiets when Illya ducks his head to listen to garbled conversations through the ear piece. It lays with its stomach to the sky and Illya scratches it right before he hears the nephew tell his counterpart that the plan is good to go tomorrow night.

The surveillance is over and UNCLE thwarts an assassination attempt, but Illya doesn’t return to the spot he’d been doing his surveillance in for three days.

Two days before they’re supposed to leave, Illya tells Gaby and Solo he’s going for a walk. He heads to the spot and the dog is nowhere to be found. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed, but he has a bacon and tomato sandwich he has to eat alone now. He eats half and sets the other on a doorstep. Just in case.

The day before they leave, Illya returns again. The sandwich is gone. No dog. He gives a sigh and it was a stupid attachment. He turns to go, but from the next street over, he hears a yip. High pitched. Frightened. He’s through the alley and on the street before he thinks better.

A group a children has cornered the dog. Pulling it’s tail, poking it with a stick. “Mangy mutt,” they call it. Cruel and insensitive and for what? Illya swats all three of them in the back of the head and sends them home to their mothers to tell her they love her. Illya looks at the dog, who perks up at him.

“We leave tomorrow,” he informs the dog, who wags its tail at him. “You must fight for yourself.” The dog’s head tips, as though it can understand the instructions. 

Illya sighs and then bends to pick up the dog. It fits into the crook of his arm. “We tell no one of this,” he informs the mutt.


	20. Drabble 020

_**Prompt** : OMG!!! PLEASE CONTINUE ON THE ONE WITH ILLYA AND THE LITTLE GIRL I NEED IT_   
_\- Anonymous_

_Original drabble here:[x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4668053/chapters/10671437)_

\---

“What do you mean there’s no one coming for her?” Gaby’s voice was theatric, but she was trying to keep it low. It failed miserably, because Illya could still hear the entire conversation from where he sat in a lounge chair, moving pieces around a chess board. “Do we even know who her parents are?” 

A sigh from Waverly. “We  _are_  working on it, Gaby.”

“This can’t be the best place for her,” Solo spoke up, waving his hand around their hotel room. 

“She cries when we try to bring her anywhere else and quite frankly…” Waverly trailed off, for once flabbergasted with the whole ordeal. “We’re not equipped for this.” 

Illya was listening with only half an ear. The subject of their conversation, a small girl who’d they’d rescued from a THRUSH complex earlier that day, sat on the couch opposite him. She seemed to be as intent on the chess game as Illya was and hadn’t really left his presence since they’d come back here.

His eyes rose to look across at the child and he wasn’t sure if he was amused or annoyed to find that she was mirroring him exactly. The way he sat, the posture of his back, the thoughtful look on his face. He frowned, she frowned.

Reaching out for one of the chess pieces, the child did the same with an imaginary board in front of her. She grabbed a small knick knack instead, moving it just like Illya moved his Rook.

He sighed, she sighed. He leaned back, she leaned back. He steepled his fingers in front of his faced and she did the same.

“Stop this,” he barked at her, but she didn’t seem to care. She kept mirroring every move he made, ever shift in the way he sat. A small exasperated sigh, echoed in her own voice. 

This was going to take every bit of cunning he had, he could tell.

Lowering his hands so they were crossed on his lap, he watched her do the same before he tipped his head, voice low and pleasant as he spoke this time. “ _What is your name?_ ” he asked in Russian.

It surprised him when she answered. “Amelia.” 

He noticed that the others had gone quiet, but he didn’t dare look over at them. For now, he just focused on the child. The Russian child? Or at least she spoke Russian. “ _Why do you copy me?”_ he asked again in his own language.

“ _Because.”_

_“Because is not an answer.”  
_

_“Yes it is.”  
_

He scowled, she scowled. “ _You are very small. And aggravating_.”

The girl didn’t respond to that, didn’t even look fazed by the words. She stared back at him for a moment before scooting forward on the couch in order to reach across the table and move the Bishop opposite Illya’s pieces. He looked at the move and then tipped his head. Check?

Taking a breath, he held it for a moment before he gave her a curt nod and promptly turned to look at Solo, Gaby and Waverly, who had all been paying close attention to the interaction. “She is small KGB. No other explanation.”

This time, his smile mirrored hers.


	21. Drabble 021

_**Prompt** : Can you do a drabble where Illya is scared because Gaby is in danger and he's only calmed after he's beaten the men who hurt her and she is safe at home?  
_ _\- Anonymous_

\---

“This ought to heal well.” 

The words draw Illya’s eyes to the field medic crouching in front of Gaby. She has a blanket around her shoulders and fresh, white gauze wrapped around her forearm. Wrist to elbow. Someone had slashed at her with a knife and she was lucky it hadn’t gone deep. Still bled. Still ruined her dress. It was a shame. He’d liked that dress.

“Thank you,” Gaby’s voice was drawn, quiet. She’d been scared. Not unaccustomed to pain, but it didn’t mean she liked it. 

Solo, who’d been unusually quiet during the whole escapade, leaning up against the brick wall they sat near, finally spoke up. “Perhaps you could see to our Russian friend’s hands, here,” he said, waving a hand in Illya’s direction.

“No,” he said sternly before the medic could stand. “They are fine.” 

Gaby watched him closely, her voice tender for a different reason now. “Illya,” she said softly. “Look at them.”

He didn’t have to. He knew exactly the condition he’d find them in and it was a stupid, rookie thing to have to deal with. He knew how to hit a man without leaving a mark on himself. Yet, here he was, with bloody, popped knuckles. Fingers that throbbed, skin red and turning purple in places.

He’d left a bloody mess of a man’s face. Several men.

“They are fine,” he repeated. 

The medic gave Solo a look before turning back to Gaby. He pulled out some extra gauze and bottles of ointment, putting them beside her. “For when he’s less stubborn,” he whispered.

Solo snorted. “I wouldn’t hold your breath on that.”

After the medic left, there was an unusual, tumultuous silence that fell over the three of them. Illya stayed where he was, aching in ways that had nothing to do with his hands. Solo looked as though he were trying to think of something to say, which should have said enough on it’s own. Gaby. She simply stared at the side of Illya’s face. Like she’d seen a side of him he’d never wanted to show her.

“What were you thinking?” Gaby finally asks. 

It has his gaze shooting to her face. It’s a reprimand and he knows it. He doesn’t apologize and maybe there’s some embarrassment, but he’s too prideful of a man to let it show. “This doesn’t matter. The job is done.”

“You barely left them breathing!” Voice raised, eyes angry, scared as she looked across the space at him. 

“They are lucky I make this choice,” he growls at her. He could have easily killed them. Could have easily hit in spots they wouldn’t have recovered from. 

“I’m sure they’re not feeling lucky at the moment,” Solo quipped.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” Illya barks out and leans back slightly afterwards. It sounds too much like an apology that he stopped making for himself years ago. 

Gaby scoffs. “Frighten?” It sounds like she’s going to fight. Sounds like she’s about to get mad. Instead, she grabs the gauze and stands, marching over to him.

“No, I do not need-…” 

“Stop,” she demands. It’s firm, fierce and Illya doesn’t move from where he is. She sits in front of him, pulling his hand to her as she starts to work on his knuckles, wrapping them. “You don’t frighten me,” she tells him, softer now that he’s allowed her to do what she wants. “It’s what you would do,” she admits. “For me and for Solo.” 

From his place observing, Solo shakes his head, waving one hand slightly. “Gaby dear, don’t bring me into this.”

Illya watches her face while she’s watching the work she’s doing on his hands. He wants to tell her he would do anything. For her. Maybe even for Solo. He can’t get the words pass his lips. He settles for something safe. “They had it coming.”

Gaby’s hand settles over his wrapped one. A quiet thank you. “Maybe.”


	22. Drabble 022

_**Prompt** : You should do a drabble about Illya after he lifts the motorcycle off himself and sees Gaby on the ground.  
\- Anonymous_

\--

There was rain and smoke and blood. Yelling and fighting and for a long, long moment, it’s all Illya can understand. The world has faded into this new order of things, just fabric burning to his flesh and a weight on his chest that allows only the shallowest of breaths. Just foggy tree branches swaying under the wind and the rain. Just the grass beneath his head, the gravel digging into his back.

Gaby yells Solo’s name.

It helps calm things. The swirling of the world around him starts to define itself and his hands move before he can think better of it. There will be time later for self assessment. Right now, there’s a girl in an orange dress jumping onto someone’s back. There’s a man with a tire iron smashing it into an American’s head and if anyone’s going to beat some sense into that man, it’s going to be Illya. Not this guy.

The body of the motorcycle is heavy, but Illya’s running on adrenaline and pain. Where others would crumble beneath it, he towers over it. He grips the wreckage and by the time he gets over there, Alexander has a gun aimed at Solo’s head. So he does what he can. What his muddled head will allow.

He tosses the whole damn thing.

It’s instinct after that. The knife at his side unsheathed and into Alexander’s gut while the man pulls the trigger, sending a bullet into the dirt, harmlessly. Illya meets his eyes and can see the spark leave them. See that moment they go unseeing beneath his gaze. He doesnt’ pray or feel for the man, there are other things to worry about.

He stands after that, body aching as he starts coming down from that adrenaline and he glances down at Solo, who’s rolling on the ground dazed. “Cowboy?”

“I’ll be alright, Peril.” He waves him off. 

Illya’s kneeling beside Gaby then, pulling her shaking form into his lap and brushes her hair out of her eyes. She gives a small smile up at him in response to his own immediate one. “It’s okay,” he tells her, just as the helicopters are heard over head. He looks up at them, but his eyes fall again, not straying from Gaby until the field medics come.

He’d promised. In that hotel room with her on the table, he’d promised that it would be okay. It almost hadn’t been and that was on him. No matter what had happened between then and now.

He wasn’t going to leave her side. Not until he knew it was going to be okay.


	23. Drabble 023

_**Prompt** : I've been trying to think of a request and I believe I've come up with one. Lots of angst, if you please ;) Something about the scene with Uncle Rudi and he makes the insult about the carthorse and the Communist don't appreciate aristocracy and something where Illya feels inferior since he is just a little Communist who isn't special, and then Gaby is like "but...I like you anyway???" and then...ending your choice. What do you think?  
\- elleeffsee_

\---

Gaby had just pulled the duvet over herself when she heard Illya start to hack Marina water into the sink. Deep, congested noises from his lungs and sighed before pushing the fabric off of her once more. His clothes had been damp when he’d come in, when she asked, he’d said they’d gone for a swim.

Sounded like more than a swim.

“Do you need anything?” she called, coming to stand at the edge of the bathroom door, which was ajar. 

His eyes caught hers in the mirror before he gave a short shake of his head. “No,” he said, voice growly from the water and the coughing. “I am fine, thank you.” Ever polite, as he always was.

She watched him wash water over his face, getting the sea salt from his skin. He looked a little pale, but color was coming back to him even as he stood there. Upstairs, the room shook every once in a while. Solo, entertaining Victoria Vinciguerra. Gaby didn’t know how the man could stand it. The woman was a villain. Tried and true.

And tomorrow, Gaby was going to throw both Illya and Solo to the wolves, so to speak.

It had her staying right where she was, watching Illya couch and spit into the sink again, hunched over it. “You should rest,” he says over his shoulder. She’s already told him that Uncle Rudi wanted to meet tomorrow.

“I can’t sleep,” she told him, sing songed in her way of speaking. She folds her arms over her chest, raising her chin at him in the mirror. “Not with you regurgitating the entire bay into the sink.” 

Illya snorted, pulling a towel to himself. “I am sorry I am not the aristocracy you enjoy.” There was a bitterness to his tone that had her brow furrowing. At first she didn’t understand where the slight was coming from, but after a moment, she recalled Rudi’s words. A good German girl knows not to mix the blood of cart horse with that of a race horse. Was he really still on about that?

Of all the things…

“You do know I don’t share my Uncle’s views on the matter?” she said. 

Another snort. “I may be Communist,” he said, though the words came out disgruntled and she wasn’t sure if it was the water in his lungs or the bite to his ideals. “But I know how to enjoy fine things.”

Gaby opened her mouth to protest some more, but she stopped abruptly. Illya’s hand had strayed to his wrist. His bare wrist. She hadn’t known it was his father’s watch when she’d told him to give it to those thugs. She sighed, rolling her eyes like she was exasperated with him. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about, I’m a German Chop Shop Girl, remember?” Illya’s eyes met hers again, narrowing slightly in thought. “I like grease and oil…and fast cars. Which is why…” she shrugged. “I don’t want a racehorse.” His head tipped back. “A carthorse will do just fine.”

She left the doorway before she could see how the words effected him. But the quiet  _cha_  that came from his lips was enough to tell her they’d gotten the job done.

He appreciated the sentiment.


End file.
